CONVERSATION:

The Young Man is leaving the house. His hair is wet, a combination of a recent shower and sweat. As he exits, fumbling for a cigarette, head cooled by the sudden cold, he sees the Old Man. The Old Man is sitting on the stoop waiting. He is always waiting. His clothes even, are waiting. Waiting for their return to style. Or the Old Man to turn, to dust.

"Happy New Year, Brother." The Old man mentions, his greeting half question half suggestion.

"Happy New Year." Replies the young man.

The Old Man ponders, just for a moment. "Another one, Huh?"

The Young Man finds the cigarette, lights it and walks down the three steps. He turns, taking a pull off the cigarette-it's cherry flares yellow gold- He exhales through his nostrils.

"Aint going to last forever I suppose."

The Old Man nods, "I hear that," quietly and half to himself. He has turned away, eye caught by the sudden erratic flight of a pigeon or the flash of a car horn. When He turns back the Young man is rounding the corner, half-way to the train. A whisp of blue smoke trailing his tall figure. An ever-so-slight swagger in his step.
©DANIEL MORTON 2011